Homecoming
by Aurora Ilvento
Summary: Riggs finds a bit of closure in a way only he can - with a massive explosion.
1. Chapter 1

Upon entering the trailer, Murtaugh finds Riggs snoozing in his usual spot on the couch, a bottle in one hand, a gun in the other. He has his long legs stretched out on front of him, head tilted back at an uncomfortable-looking angle. Nothing unusual there. Roger kicks his booted foot lightly, ready to tell him that they have work to do and he should get his lazy ass of the couch. And maybe clean the place once in a while, because there's a large brownish-black stain on the window behind him, with disgusting little bits stuck in it.  
But Riggs won't be roused. Roger is stopped from trying again by a stench he notices only just now. His partner's old trailer smells slightly musty at the best of times, but this time the smell is different, repulsive and sweet at the same time. Roger sniffs. It stinks of decay in here.  
Suddenly the pieces fall into place. The gun in Riggs' hand, the stain on the window. Now he sees what his mind has tried to shut out before: The dark hole under the Texan's chin and the lips pulled back from the teeth in a grimace of pain.  
 _Oh god, no._  
He stares in disbelief at his partner's desiccated corpse until the smell becomes unbearable and he starts to gag. Stumbling outside, he sits down heavily on the steps. He feels sick to his stomach. Baking in this tin can in the Californian sun has completely dried the body out, that makes it kind of hard to tell how long Riggs has been dead, but Roger has seen enough bodies in various states of decay to guess it must have been days, maybe weeks.  
But how could this happen? How could they not have noticed?  
"Baby?"  
All of a sudden Trish is there. Where did she come from? Roger wants to tell her not to go inside. She shouldn't have to see this. Hell, _he_ didn't want to see this, would give a lot to unsee it.  
"Baby, wake up."  
Beach, trailer, corpse, all vanish like a popped soap bubble and Roger realizes to his immense relief it's just been a dream. He's in bed with his wife. She is looking at him with sleep-tousled hair and a worried crease in her brow.  
Patting his chest, she says, "You were having one hell of a nightmare, weren't you?"  
"Yeah," he gasps.  
"Want to tell me about it?"  
He doesn't. But the image of his partner's half-decayed body is stuck in his head, maybe he can exorcise it by talking. Trish listens, making sympathetic comments as he talks. When he's done she starts to analyze the dream, something they always do when one of them has a nightmare.  
But Roger doesn't need her to analyze it, he already knows what inspired this particular nightmare. Riggs has disappeared again, leaving behind only an ominous note. That was two weeks ago, and not a word since. Roger knows he shouldn't be worried, because that sort of behavior is kinda par for the course. Still... maybe his subconscious is trying to tell him something.  
He shares his concerns with his wife.  
"I'm sure Martin's fine." Trish tries to reassure him. They both know the ex-Navy SEAL can take on pretty much anyone that stands in his way. When he wants to, that is.  
"The last time he took off like that he went down to Mexico to kill Tito Flores. And he was pretty determined to get killed in the process."  
Trish considers that for a moment, then offers another, less dramatic explanation.  
"Maybe he just needs some time alone to clear his head. Understandable, with all that's happened."  
It is. Starting a relationship with his best friend's ex-wife, his abusive asshole of a father being in prison just down the road – that stuff would mess with anyone's head, even someone more emotionally stable than his partner. Could be he's just holed up in a cabin somewhere, drinking beer and shooting at bottles.  
 _Or shooting himself in the head,_ a traitorous little voice in the back of his mind adds _._ Roger shakes his head to get rid of that thought and slowly says, "Maybe you're right."  
"I'm always right."  
Her tone is calm, reassuring, because that's what her husband needs right now. It's a game they always play when he broods over some imagined horror scenario. Her part in this is being the voice of reason and alleviating his fears, something Trish has mastered over the years. But it's a bit harder when she shares his concerns. Though she doesn't believe Martin would kill himself when he has finally found something to live for – or rather, she doesn't want to believe it – he shouldn't have to go through whatever it is alone. After all, being a family means more than just offering someone food and a place to sleep.  
"This time though, I think you had the right idea all along. Go, find him and be there for him."  
Roger nods, then says miserably. "But I don't even know where he is."  
"You can try to track his phone."  
"Already did that a week ago. He's turned it off."  
"Roger," she admonishes gently. His partner's privacy is obviously not something her husband is concerned with.  
"What? I just wanted to check on him. Like you said, things have been crazy lately." He sits up in bed. "He's had the choice to either save his father's life or let him die. He decided to save him, save the sick fuck who ruined his childhood. I can't imagine what that must do to his head."  
Roger looks at his wife and knows she's thinking the same thing. _What a messed-up life. What a messed-up family._  
Then it hits him."I know where he is."

Roger wants to drive straight down there, but it occurs to him he doesn't even know whereabouts in Texas Riggs grew up. He got detailed directions from a very pissed-off Molly (along with the order to "drag his stupid ass back here before I have to do it"), but even so he's driving for hours around Kerr County, bouncing along dirt road after dirt road in the oppressive heat, and still hasn't found the farm.  
Finally, after stopping several times to coax further directions out of taciturn rednecks, he pulls up between the rusted wreck of a tractor and an equally dilapidated farmhouse.  
He's found it.

The sun is setting, signaling the end of a hot, dusty day as he climbs out of the car to survey the area. Huge trees loom over the farmhouse. In the distance he can make out other ramshackle buildings. Cicadas chirp. The whole place is overrun with knee-high weeds, probably teeming with snakes and other creeping, crawling things. The yipping of a faraway coyote gives him goose bumps. Even though Roger has been camping before and is therefore no stranger to the countryside, he is city-bred through and through. Standing here in the middle of goddamn nowhere in the dying light creeps him out. Better find Riggs fast so he can get back to civilization.

Roger decides to try the house first. Climbing the steps and crossing the sagging porch, every foostep is accompanied by a creak. Police tape, cracked and faded from the sun, flutters in the listless breeze – the only movement aside from the weeds rustling in the same wind. He might be the only human being out here, a thought that makes him feel very lonely.  
His light knock causes the door to swing open with a groan straight out of a horror movie. Now that he thinks about it, this whole scenario could have come from a horror movie. But he's no hapless teen, he's a police officer and he's armed. Putting a hand on his gun to bolster his courage, he calls out for his partner.  
The only answer is another yip from the coyote. The light is fading fast now. Roger is tired and sweaty, and longs for a shower and a bed. Internally debating what to do, he wavers on the doorstep. Just a quick look, he decides, to make absolutely sure Riggs is not here. Then he'll try again tomorrow. He pushes the door all the way open, which elicits another haunted-house groan from rusted hinges, and steps inside.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to 'Guest' and, of course, Dramamama5 for reviewing :) Glad you like it!_

While outside there was still enough light to see by, inside it's much darker. When his eyes have adjusted to the gloom, he looks around. Everything is covered in dust and cobwebs. Clearly no one has been here for ages, except for rats or raccoons, or maybe possums – what does he know? But they're definitely animal tracks and not the boot prints he's looking for. It would probably be wiser to go back outside and search the grounds, but now that Roger his here his curiosity is piqued. Poking around in his childhood home is the perfect opportunity to learn more about his partner. Though he knows Riggs much better now than in the beginning of their partnership, the man still keeps his cards pretty close to his chest. While Roger has come to understand that it's not something Riggs can really help, sometimes it's frustrating, because Roger is the kind of person who likes to share everything – with such enthusiasm that the others probably sometimes wish it wasn't so.

His first impression is that the place is a mess. It makes Riggs' trailer look like an epitome of tidiness. It must have been nice once, rustic but charming with its sturdy furniture and earthy hues, but now there's stuff all over the floor, the furniture toppled or broken. Roger has the feeling that the animals whose tracks he saw only account for part of the damage.

It's getting ever darker. After clicking on the flashlight he wisely brought, Roger resumes his wandering, taking care not to stumble over any of the debris lying around. He runs his hands over some surfaces, wiping off the dust, and sets furniture upright in an unconscious attempt to make this place look less desolate. It's not really working. And it's doubly futile, because what he really wants to do is not fix this place, but fix the past, and his partner with it.

In the living room he picks up a picture that has fallen off the hook and turns it over. The glass is miraculously undamaged. He brushes off the dust and sees it's a family photo – a man, a woman and a child of maybe eight years. The kid is positively beaming and Roger can't help but smile at the exuberance on the little face. It radiates the same energy, albeit less destructive and more innocent, than the adult version sometimes displays.  
The woman's smile is slight in comparison, but there's something about her that makes Roger immediately like her, a kindness suggested in the way her eyes crinkle up – much like Riggs in his gentler moments. He doesn't resemble her much, except for those eyes. They have the same ridiculously long lashes and, though it's hard to see on the picture, probably the same curious mixture of colors that makes them appear brown or green depending on the light.

The photo looks like it might have been taken at a county fair. The woman has her arms around her son's shoulders, Riggs Senior in turn has his arms wrapped possessively around both of them. It's impossible to tell from his tight-lipped smile, but the gesture makes him look proud of his family – as he should be. His wife is beautiful, in a wholesome kind of way, and his kid cute. A perfect family, at least on the surface.  
Roger studies the smiling faces. They seem content, happy even. Was this picture taken before it all went bad? Or was the abuse still sporadic then, something to be explained away? He might be reading too much into things, but when he looks closer, the father's grip is maybe a bit too tight, while there could be a protective quality in the way the woman holds her son. Also, she's too young for the lines on her face. Those around her eyes may stem from squinting against the never-ceasing Texan sun, but there are additional lines around her mouth and on her forehead – lines drawn by the awful realization her marriage isn't going to plan?  
It makes Roger sad to ponder this, so he puts the picture back down and walks on.

In the den he comes across an spot on the hardwood floor that's a darker color than the rest. Faded from age and sun, it's still easily recognizable as a bloodstain. So this is the place where Riggs Senior tried to beat his son to death, only to be shot and nearly kick the bucket himself. It's a big stain; he must have bled and bled. And the two kids had to see this. _Horrible_. This whole thing is horrible. Roger runs a hand over his head – if he had any hair, he would have pulled at it. His children sometimes tease him for being overly sensitive, and overly dramatic – not without reason. He knows he tends to overreact, but really, things couldn't have gone much worse.  
Two kids' lives were ruined that day: One going to prison for trying to protect his friend and then seeing no other way than to pursue a criminal life. The other growing up a damaged adult who even some twenty-odd years later can't get over what happened to him.  
But he can't really blame him. Standing in this house, with the remnants of violence all around him, makes the hell Riggs lived through as a child all too real, as if any moment ghostly figures could rise out of the dust to reenact the long-ago horrors. Roger shivers. If ghosts existed, they would definitely haunt this place.

Having seen enough, or rather way too much, he steps out into the warm summer night. A deep breath of the sweet, clean air clears his lungs of the dust and tomb-like atmosphere inside. It's a wonderful night. A sickle moon hangs in the sky, along with a full array of stars. But the absence of man-made lights makes the area crawl with shadows that could conceal any number of dangerous creatures. As if on cue, the skin on the back of his neck prickles, like there are eyes on him. Casting the beam of his flashlight around only produces more shadows. A worrying thought crosses his mind. Are there wolves in Texas? He pauses, uncertain. But his car is just around the corner and the only other option would be to go back into the horror house. _No, thanks_. He starts walking.

The feeling of being stalked by an unseen predator intensifies with each step until all of a sudden his legs get swept out from under him and he falls on his ass, losing the flashlight. He can just make out a shadowy figure standing there, pointing a gun at him.  
"Sure hope you got a good reason being out here, pal. 'Cause otherwise I just might have to blow your brains out." The click of a safety being removed underlines the threat.  
Roger immediately recognizes the voice tinged with his partner's unique brand of homicidal happiness – the kind where the superficial cheer not masks the fury in the least. He also realizes more or less at the same time that with the flashlight now uselessly illuminating a tree, the other man has no chance to know it's him. This could be dicey, since Riggs is perfectly able to make good on his threat. Careful not to make any sudden movements, Murtaugh says, "Nice to see you, too, partner."  
"Rog?" The gun lowers. "What are you doing here?" he demands, apparently not the least pleased to see him.  
This is so not the reunion Roger imagined. At least Riggs reaches down a hand to help him up. Roger brushes the dirt off his clothes and bends to retrieve his flashlight.  
The other man still stares at him, waiting for an answer.  
Roger tries to break the tension with humor. "It's been a while. You haven't called, you haven't texted... I'm starting to think you don't love me anymore."  
Riggs doesn't respond to his joke. "You been inside?" He nods toward the house.  
"Yes," Roger answers cautiously, unsure if he overstepped a line with his snooping.  
"Look, I've been–," he starts to explain, but gets interrupted.  
"So you drove out here, got out of the car and, what – went straight inside? Just like that?"  
Roger gives a slow nod. Something's off here, a strange undertone in his partner's voice that he doesn't know what to make of.  
"Hmm." Riggs scratches his head with the muzzle of the gun, then mutters, "If it's that easy, how come I ain't got the guts for it?"  
Ah, there it is. _He thinks he failed, somehow.  
_ Before Roger can start to formulate an answer, Riggs cocks his head and asks, "How's it look?"  
Now, how to phrase that in the least offending way possible? "I'm sure it was really nice once."  
The younger man snorts. "No need to sugarcoat it. I know it's a godawful fucking shithole."  
Roger wouldn't go that far, but if he said so Riggs would take it for pity, so he just grunts noncommittally. Holding this conversation increasingly feels like trying to pick his way over a minefield – one wrong step and _boom_. He opts for a different topic.  
"So what have you been doing this whole time?"  
The other man shrugs. "Drinking, mostly. Roaming the grounds."  
As Riggs turns to once again stare at the house, Roger looks him over, surreptitiously, with the help of the flashlight. He needn't have bothered asking because the other man's gaunt, ragged appearance tells him everything he needs to know. Each day of being out here, where such terrible things happened to him, must have made him crazier and crazier. Combine that with a diet à la Riggs – lots of alcohol but little food – and it's no wonder his pants practically hang off his hips. Murtaugh is appalled. He should have come looking for him sooner.  
Still, better half-starved and crazy than dead.

While Roger is studying his partner, Riggs is biting his lip and still staring at the door, fighting an internal battle. He's clearly not in the right frame of mind right now for another attempt, so Roger says, "Look, I've been in the car for fourteen hours straight. I'm spent. How about we check into a motel, get something to eat, have a shower – individually, not that you get any ideas – and sleep, also individually? And come back tomorrow?"  
This time the joke gets him a slight twitch of the lips. "Alright."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for the feedback, guys! I really appreciate it, because I wasn't so sure about this chapter. I wanted to put the focus more on description, but didn't know if it would turn out okay. But you guys like it, so I'm happy :)_

Holding his nose in exaggerated disgust, Roger lets him have first go at the shower. "You need it more than I do, buddy."  
Riggs doesn't contest it. Stripping off his dirty clothes and stepping into the shower is an immense pleasure, even with the motel's crappy water pressure. He washes the grime of days off his body, then just stands under the spray with his head bowed, letting the warm water beat down on his neck and shoulders in an attempt to get his muscles to loosen. It doesn't really work, but at least his head is much clearer now. Enough so that he remembers to shave (with his partner's razor, because the guy has brought an overnight bag like he's on the way to the goddamn Ritz) and rinse his clothes with shampoo.

As he comes out of the bathroom he sees Roger has used the time to get food. Due to the lack of a table, because their motel room is so sparsely furnished, he has the burgers, fries and two iced teas laid out on one bed. The smell of food – warm, greasy and _delicious_ – hangs in the air. Riggs has ignored the pangs of hunger for so long that they barely bother him anymore, but that makes them come back full force. His stomach growls loudly. Roger, sitting on one of the beds and already halfway through his burger, looks up and grins. "Help yourself."  
Not needing to be told twice, Riggs plops down on the other bed, unwraps one of the Texas-sized burger and scarves it down.  
Between two bites he asks, "So why are you here again?"  
His partner gives him a sarcastic look. "When you take off without a word, people tend to go looking for you. You might not be aware of that, but that's just not something normal people do."  
Now that's just unfair. "Hey, I left you a note, didn't I?"  
"You did. And what a great one it was." Roger pulls the crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket and reads it out. " 'There's something I gotta do. Back soon. R.' "  
"Yeah, so?" Riggs points at him with a fry. "Everything explained."  
Roger just stares, incredulous. "There's _zero_ information in there. And I don't know how you define 'soon', but for me that's a couple of days, not two weeks."  
"Two weeks, huh?" Riggs takes a sip of iced tea and lets that sink in. He hasn't been aware how much time has passed while he has been trying and failing to master the task he'd set himself. As the days passed even approaching the house seemed increasingly impossible, so he passed the time drinking and taking potshots at trees, among other things, before the tedium was broken by an intruder who turned out to be his partner.  
"Yeah." The older man nods emphatically. "Molly's pissed, by the way."  
Riggs winces. He'll have to make it up to her, and to Ben. Maybe he'll bring them one of these burgers – they're delicious.

With his clothes hung up to dry, Riggs is dressed only in a towel while they eat. Roger finds his earlier suspicions confirmed: He has definitely gotten thinner, so much so that Roger can't stop sneaking glances while they eat. He thought he was being subtle about it, but Riggs notices, scowling and saying, "Stop staring at me."  
"Sorry. It's just that–." He gestures in his partner's general direction. Pretty much all the bones are visible under his skin. While the same goes for the bands of muscle, it still makes him look awfully breakable.  
Riggs follows his gaze. "Yeah, I kinda forgot to eat."  
"How can you forget to eat? At the most, I forget that I've _already_ eaten. The result you can see here." Roger pats his little belly.  
"Aw, now, don't say that. You're in pretty good shape." A short pause, then he adds with a smirk. "For a man your age, that is."  
Roger bristles. "What do you mean, _my age_? Fifty is the new forty, in case you haven't heard. "  
"Actually, I haven't. But what I do hear is your knees creaking every time you get out of the car. Seems they haven't gotten the news either."  
Despite himself, Roger grins. Things are finally back to normal.

Having consumed every last morsel of food, Riggs balls up the wrappers and aims them at the trashcan, then stretches out on the bed with a contented sigh. The deep inhale makes his ribs downright prominent. Roger is almost sure he can count them. He shakes his head. As soon as they get home, they'll have to work at getting him up to his fighting weight again. But this meal, though the proverbial drop in the bucket, has clearly done him good. He has finally lost that tense, hunted expression and is now lying relaxed with his eyes closed, seemingly already asleep. Murtaugh is close to following his example. It's been a long, hot, exhausting day. Even though he hasn't yet managed to shower or brush his teeth, he's just too tired to drag his ass off the bed.

"Rog, why do you keep doing this?"  
The question startles Roger out of his half-sleep.  
"Doing what?" He has no idea what the other man is talking about. He isn't doing anything at the moment, except falling asleep in his clothes, and that's not something he does often.  
"Coming after me again and again?"  
Roger doesn't know if he should be insulted. After everything they've been through together. He even told him he loves him, for fuck's sake! And this is his thanks?  
But before he can get worked up, Roger realizes that his partner didn't sound annoyed, just mildly curious, as if he really doesn't get it. That's when it hits him. This isn't a rejection, Riggs just doesn't think he'sworth the trouble.  
It makes sense, now that he thinks about it. Growing up the way he did can't make for a healthy sense of self-worth, or a healthy _anything_ really. Roger is torn between hate – at the son of a bitch that made Riggs this way – and sadness. Moments like this make him wonder if there even is anything he can do to help the other man. The damage has been done a long time ago. Maybe it cannot be undone.  
But that's too dark a topic to address in the middle of the night. They need to deal with this when they're both fully awake and rested. So Roger just says, somewhat sententiously, "The Chinese have a saying: When you've saved a life, you're responsible for that life from now on."  
"I've saved your life plenty of times. That mean I'm responsible for you, too?" Riggs squints skeptically at his partner.  
"You most definitely are."  
"But you're not Chinese and neither am I. So I call bullshit on that."  
"Just face it, you're stuck with me for the rest of your life."  
"Hmm." Riggs closes his eyes again as he mulls that over, then decides, "There are worse fates."  
"My, that sounded awfully like a compliment, don't you think?" With a warm smile Roger glances over to the other bed, but the younger man is already breathing deeply in slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

_To 'Guest': Of course I'm continuing this story, I would never leave you guys hanging! Thanks again for your review, it always makes me happy :)_

It has gotten rather late yesterday – alone finding a motel in this big empty space took some time – so they both slept in. Still Roger insists on a late breakfast at the diner he drove by yesterday. It's not his first choice, but when the other option is going without, he'll take the greasy diner food. He orders the least offensive item on the menu, eggs and toast, while Riggs chooses a platter of the _Breakfast Special.  
_ Roger sees what's so special about it when the bored teenage waitress brings their food. It's like a normal breakfast, only everything is fried within an inch of its life. Roger can feel his arteries clogging just from the smell of it. Riggs needs the calories, so he doesn't berate him for his unhealthy choice, but when the younger man offers him a fried waffle, Roger declines.  
"I'm good."  
Riggs shrugs. "You're missin' out, man."  
While his partner works his way through his heart attack-inducing breakfast, Roger surveys the diner. It seems to be stuck in the 50s, sporting old-fashioned vinyl booths and equally old-fashioned patrons. With out-of-state plates on his car and a non-Southern accent, he has drawn some stares yesterday when he went to get their food. Now, in the company of Riggs who so unmistakably belongs here, the patrons go about their business and barely give them a second glance. The only one who gives them any attention is the waitress who brings their check, an elderly woman whose nametag made her out to be Mrs. Garland, but who insisted on being called Lucy. Riggs surprises him by chatting with her for a few minutes.

As they walk back to the car, Murtaugh can't contain his curiosity any longer. "An old lover?"  
Riggs makes a face. "Molly's mom used to work here. We sometimes dropped by. Mrs. Garland, I mean Lucy, was always real nice."  
Roger can just imagine the ladies of Kerr County doting on the motherless boy. And Mrs. Garland still harbors some motherly affection toward his partner, that much was clear in the way she scolded him with an easy familiarity for not taking care of himself, and also in the way she called him 'little Marty', much to Roger's amusement.  
Roger give his partner a sideways glance. "You were really polite back there. That's a completely new side of you, I'm impressed. And surprised, quite frankly, that you've got it in you."  
Riggs is walking with long strides, his shoulders hunched. At Roger's words he casts an uneasy glance back at the diner. "Talking to her made me feel like a kid again. I don't think I like that."  
After what he has seen, Roger figures that no, he doesn't.

"Riggs, is that a rocket launcher?"  
"Yup."  
They're both riding in Riggs' truck. It's much better suited to the rough, potholed roads than Roger's car, which has started to make an alarming creaking sound whenever he encountered a hole or a piece of not-yet-flattened road kill. Roger reminds himself to get the car's springs checked when they get back home.  
Riggs is silent during the ride, giving only monosyllabic responses whenever his partner says something. After a while Roger has given up and let him be. Instead he has taken to messing with the radio. It seems to pick up only three stations, leaving him with a choice between country music, some preacher going on about hellfire and how they're all going to end there or country music. In the hope of listening to _anything_ else Roger keeps fiddling with the dial until Riggs slaps his hand away and they're left with country music.  
So while Johnny Cash sings about how he sees a darkness, Roger rifles around the duffel bag he found in the foot well. Which is where he came across the rocket launcher, and some other bits and pieces that he doesn't know the purpose of. Or rather, he doesn't want to know. The rocket launcher is worrying enough as it is.  
Gingerly he puts it back where he found it and says, "So let me get this straight. You didn't bring any toiletries, or a change of clothes, but you brought a rocket launcher?"  
"Didn't bring it, bought it here."  
"Ah. That's alright, then," Roger deadpans. "But why did you buy it?"  
"You never know when you might need a rocket launcher."  
"Right. Glad to know you've got your priorities straight."  
"Yup."

This time they get there much faster, because Riggs is driving. Which is a good thing, because even after reaching the place just the day before, Roger wouldn't have found it on his own. They left the blacktop behind some time ago and are now crunching over half-overgrown roads and others that don't even deserve the name and most closely resemble dirt tracks. Roger can relax and admire the landscape, which is harsh, but beautiful in its way. And teeming with wildlife. Yesterday the only animals he saw were stuck to the road, plus the occasional buzzard picking at the remains, so it's a nice change. Roger spies wild hares hopping into the bushes by the side of the road, snakes sunning themselves on rocks and a great variety of birds. Once they even have to stop to let a family of armadillos – a big one followed by three little ones – cross the road.

It's early afternoon when they arrive. Riggs parks right where Roger did the day before, but doesn't turn off the engine. The two cops sit there in the idling truck, staring at the house. It's not as creepy in full sunlight, but no less depressing. Riggs makes no move to get out, seemingly transfixed by the sight.  
Roger wipes the sweat from his brow and says, in a bad imitation of a Southern accent, "Good lord almighty, a purdy hot today, ain't it?"  
The spell broken, Riggs groans with half-hearted exasperation. "Please shut up."

As they walk toward the house, Riggs realizes, with a lucidity brought on by two meals and a good night's sleep, how out of it he was these past two weeks. Which is rather ironic, because he thought that coming back here, where it all started, might help get some of the chaos out of his head.  
He's still not sure it was the right decision to get his old man transferred to another prison. All his life he wanted nothing more than kill his dad or at least forget him for good. When the man forced him to come down to Amarillo and talk to him, an apology was the last thing Riggs expected. It really threw him. He wants to be angry, because after all the guy has done, he thinks a simple apology is going to fix it? Talk about too little too late. But he would be lying if he said he hasn't longed for it.  
Then, later, when he saw him in that hospital bed, his dad looked so completely unlike the terrifying figure he used to be. Riggs just couldn't leave him there to die.  
And Molly... Things are really good between them. Being with her and her amazing kid makes him happy. Which of course makes him feel like a traitor, because he owes Jake everything. Taking away his family is not how he intends to repay his debt. Occasionally a rational thought pops up and reminds him he can't really take them away, since Molly is her own person, able to make her own decisions. But he has experienced the intense pain of losing your wife and child himself. It's not something he would wish on anyone, least of all his best friend.  
Then of course there's the feeling of betraying Miranda and the family he could have had with her...  
It just got too much. He had to get out for a while.  
But seeing this place only made things worse. A continuous undercurrent of danger that no amount of drinking could lessen made him jumpy and paranoid. Without an enemy to shoot he has taken some drastic measures. Which he should probably warn Roger about.  
"By the way, careful where you're going."  
"There could be rattlesnakes, I know." His partner doesn't stop walking. "That's why I'm wearing my motorcycle boots, even though I'm sweating like a pig in them."  
"Yeah, but there could also be tripwires."  
That freezes him in his tracks. " _What?_ " Roger yells, before lowering his voice to a more normal level. "Why would there by tripwires?"  
" 'Cause I booby-trapped the whole place."  
"But– why?"  
Riggs just shrugs, unable to explain the reasoning behind that to his partner.

Murtaugh shakes his head. What is it with SEALs and trip wires? Good thing he decided to go straight inside or he would have been blown to kingdom come.


	5. Chapter 5

Riggs hesitates on the doorstep, Roger right behind him. His mind is still full of apprehension, but his friend's steady, reassuring presence grants him the strength to finally put his foot over the threshold.

He doesn't even know what it is he's looking for, so he wanders the house just like his partner did the day before. Riggs makes his way through the house, kicking stuff out of the way. When his eyes settle on the photo Roger so carefully put back on its hook, his gaze only lingers on it for a second before he has to look away again. But it reminds him: He thought he could maybe make his peace with his past, if he could just dredge up some good memories. They are definitely there, they just mostly take place outside, where his dad taught him to hunt, or in the kitchen, where his mom sometimes sang to herself when preparing their meals.  
But he can't go in there anymore, not without seeing blood and brain matter on the wall.

The rest of the house is just fear and shame and pain. Trying to stay out of his dad's way when the man was drunk, cowering in fear when he didn't manage it. It eclipses the good memories he tried to hold on to.

As he sees the bloodstain Riggs stops abruptly. He swallows hard as he flashes back to that day.  
His father's slurred, angry voice. Watching him take off his belt and wrap it around his hand. The awful knowledge that he's going to get the shit beaten out of him and there's nothing he can do about it. The belt snaps across his skin, leaving painful welts, though the worst is yet to come.  
Then, a tiny, desperate spark of resistance that makes him scramble for the rifle rack and pull out his Winchester hunting rifle. He points it at his father and chambers a round.  
The only reaction is laughter, full of contempt, and a derisive drawl. _  
Oh well, look at this. Look who's a cowboy._  
Not the least bit afraid, the man even pulls the barrel against his forehead and bellows at him to shoot. Instead of pulling the trigger, the boy flinches back, proving once and for all he hasn't got the guts for it. His dad is right – he's too weak, too soft, a rabbit hiding from the fox, cowering in a hole and hoping the snapping jaws won't get to him.  
He gives up, the spark smothered under ash.  
As if sensing the moment he has finally broken his son's spirit, the man rips the rifle out of his hands, much too strong for the boy to hold on to it even if he wanted to, and throws him to the ground. As his dad starts to pound him into the ground he knows that this was his last chance and he's blown it and now it's over.

The blast of the Winchester is deafening. The man stiffens and falls, one cheek ripped open and spewing blood. The boy looks up at his best friend standing over them, rifle at the ready, looking like the rogue hero from a western, and realizes he just got another chance. He's just not sure if he wants it.

A hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, brings him back to the present. Roger – always so damn supporting. Riggs shrugs off his hand.  
How quickly the old feelings resurface, even though he has worked hard to put all that behind him. He has gone through one of the toughest selection processes for any armed force to become lethal with any weapon, and even without one. He has served several tours overseas, facing roadside bombs and firefights. But just standing here, in this old house, makes him feel small, useless, helpless. He fucking hates that.  
Riggs clenches his fists. A muscle jumps in his cheek as he locks his jaws against the urge to scream, the anger burning so hot he has to let it out before it consumes him. Quick as a flash, he picks up a nearby lamp and flings it across the room, then flips a coffee table, sending everything on it flying. But it's not enough.  
The sudden violent outburst must have startled his partner, but that doesn't matter right now. Nothing matters but getting rid of these feelings.  
In a corner of the room he spies the baseball bat he had in Little League, the same one his father sometimes reappropriated to really drive a point home. Striding over, he picks it up and weighs it in his hands. _That oughta do_. He swings it against the TV. The screen splinters and it falls to the ground with an explosive crash. A vintage sewing machine is the next thing to go. The cabinet is sturdier. It's able to withstand the first hits, but in the end it doesn't stand a chance. As it topples the ground he's already looking for the next target.

While Riggs goes wild with the bat, Roger steps back out of range and lets him work it out. It's probably good for him, cathartic, to get all that anger out of his system.

Riggs spends a long time smashing the place up until there's nothing left but shards and splinters. Finally he stops and stands amidst the wreckage, his shoulders heaving as he pants. He unclenches his fingers and lets the bat clatter to the floor, still keeping his back to Roger. After the cacophony of shattering furniture is over, the room is almost preternaturally quiet, the only sound Riggs' hard breaths – and what might have been a choked sob.  
It goes straight to Roger's heart. He has to rein in the urge to just go over there and hug him, because Riggs is no longer the little kid in that picture. Going for a hug now might just get him punched in the nose. Instead he tries once more to put a hand on his shoulder, to show him he's not alone. This time Riggs lets him.

Roger gives him a moment to pull himself together, then asks softly, "What do you want to do now?"  
The answer is almost too low for him to understand. "I want to get away from here."  
Then, louder, sounding more like the normal Riggs, "And burn this place to the ground."  
Murtaugh knows better than to try to talk him down when he gets like this. And maybe it's for the best. This is a bad place. Burning it down might lay the ghosts to rest...  
Hopefully his partner can find some peace, too.


	6. Chapter 6

_I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who reviewed this story. It really means a lot to me._

When Riggs said he booby-trapped the whole place, he really meant the _whole_ place. Traps are set up in strategic positions all over the property, like at the entrance to the barn or next to an old clunker of a car almost completely overgrown with weeds.  
Roger follows his partner around as he dismantles the traps, sweating and stumbling over roots and rabbit holes, cursing the sun, the heat and this godforsaken back country. Once they've got this over with, he'll never set foot in the countryside again, not even for family hiking trips. His foul mood is not improved as he steps into something that squishes unpleasantly underfoot.  
Something akin to a shriek escapes Murtaugh. Grabbing hold of the other man for balance, he takes off his shoe to inspect it. Some sort of animal feces are stuck to the treaded sole. He raises his eyes to the heavens. _Oh, for fuck's sake._ Aside from the ickiness, this will take forever to clean.  
"Would you look at that!" He holds the shoe out to Riggs who studies it thoughtfully.  
"Looks like deer droppings to me."  
"I don't care what animal that shit belongs to. I care that it's on my shoe!"  
"You should be glad it's deer shit. It could have been bear shit. Or mountain lion."  
Murtaugh lets his arm sink. _Just great_. Add that to the list of things to look out for, next to snakes, tripwires and probably murderous hillbillies.  
Riggs starts walking again. Murtaugh has no choice but to hop along.  
"Not so fast!"  
The other man obligingly slows his pace. He casts his gaze around in search of the next trap.  
"Somewhere around here... Yup. There it is."  
He kneels over the explosive device while Roger hops to a tree and sinks down in the meager shade it throws, a safe distance away in case Riggs blows himself up. Thankfully he hasn't so far, but you never know. This bomb looks particularly complicated and will probably take a while to disarm, so Roger uses the opportunity to rest up, and to try and clean his shoe with a stick he found. He is interrupted in this important task by Riggs who suddenly looks up and, putting a finger to his lips, points to a spot about two dozen yards away where a six-point buck has just stepped into view.  
"Wow," Roger breathes, totally forgetting about his soiled shoe. _Such a majestic animal._ The buck regards for a moment, seemingly unafraid, before turning around and bounding off. Its white tail flashes before it's lost in the undergrowth. Awed, Roger watches it go, thinking that maybe it's not so bad after all, being out here.

The rosy mood carries him through the day till the sun starts setting. That's as long as it takes to dismantle all the traps scattered around the property and collect the explosives, which, frighteningly enough, consist of blocks of C-4. Who knows where the crazy Texan got those from – or the rocket launcher, for that matter. His resourcefulness when it comes to destruction is truly impressive. It makes Murtaugh glad he's on their side.

Afterwards they take a break and have dinner consisting of beef jerky provided by Riggs and a couple of granola bars Murtaugh found in his pants pocket. They're crushed, because he's been sitting on them, but still edible. Sitting on the bed of the younger man's truck, they eat their frugal dinner. Riggs seems content enough, but Murtaugh can't wait to be home again where there's better food – and more comfortable seating. He keeps fidgeting, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard metal surface. Finally he can't take it anymore and goes to search through the tool box that Riggs misuses to store his sniper rifle. The ridiculous serape he also used to keep there is long gone, lost in Mexico, but maybe there's something else Murtaugh can use as a cushion.  
Riggs observes him with a curious expression. "Ain't not use shootin' that rifle now, big guy. I left my night vision gear at home."  
"Not looking for the rifle." is the slightly muffled reply. "Hey, what's this?" Murtaugh resurfaces and holds up a see-through plastic bag. It seems to be holding everything one might need when stranded without a roof over one's head. It's clear that Riggs hasn't bought this, and just as clear that he hasn't been using it.  
"The Doc gave this to me, back when my trailer was impounded." Riggs scratches his head, looking embarrassed.  
"Very thoughtful of her," Roger comments. "But you instead of using this stuff, you decided to just go feral out here."  
"Hey, I didn't go feral," Riggs protests.  
The other man just looks at him. "So you haven't been sleeping under the stars, drinking from a stream, shitting in the woods?"  
A pause. "No." He actually has been doing all those things, but Roger doesn't need to know. "And I simply forgot that's in there."  
"Right," his partner responds, distracted while he extracts a blanket from the bag and places it under his butt, then wriggles said butt a bit to find the perfect position.  
Riggs watches him fuss about with amusement. "You quite comfortable?"  
"Quite," the older man replies, much more content now.  
"Good for you."

They finish eating. Riggs swallows the last bite of jerky and says with a decided lack of enthusiasm, "About time we get started, ain't it?"  
"Uh-huh."  
Roger's just as unwilling, and not just because he has come to appreciate the peace and quiet of the countryside – and the smog-free air – and is loath to shatter it with a massive explosion.  
The problem is the house. After the nice, relaxed atmosphere outside, not to mention the breathtaking sunset, it seems especially gloomy now.

Riggs gathers up his supplies and sets on preparing the fireworks. As he walks through the house, setting up the blocks of C-4, connecting them with wires and rigging them to the detonator, the old emotions start to creep back. It's like they have all just been waiting here to ambush him when his back is turned. They press down on him with almost palpable force, but he concentrates on the explosives and tells himself that this is the last time he'll have to see this wretched place.  
Unconsciously he straightens back up when he leads the wire back outside. He has bought just enough of the stuff to be able to stand a reasonable (at least by his standards) distance away when he sets off the explosion. The rocket launcher on top of the C-4 is overkill, he has to admit, but he really wants to raze the house to the ground, burn the fucking thing till there's no trace of it left.

Finally everything is ready. Riggs adopts a shoulder-width stand, ready for the kickback, and raises the rocket launcher. "Alright. Here we go."  
Just before he pulls the trigger Roger yells, "No, wait!"  
"Why?"  
"Just wait!"  
Perplexed and irritated at the delay, Riggs lowers the rocket launcher and watches as his partner runs into the house. He wondering whether he has forgotten his keys or his wallet – and if it's too early for him to be getting senile.  
"Here." There he is again, panting and carrying a small rectangular object in his hand. As he tries to hand it to him Riggs sees it's a family photo, the same one that has been hanging on the wall of the living room for as long as he can remember.  
Riggs makes no move to take it, just glances at it with the same wary expression he would give a cottonmouth lying coiled up and ready to strike right in front of his feet.  
"I thought maybe you'd want it." Roger holds it out again, but Riggs backs away, hands up and out like he's telling him not to shoot, and shakes his head vehemently. "No, I don't."

"Oh." Roger deflates slightly. "Fine. But I want to tell you something."  
He points to the woman in the picture that Riggs still refuses to look at.  
"You have her eyes. Your mother's eyes."  
Riggs turns away, but Roger grabs his arm and forces him to turn back around. The younger man's muscles are tense almost to the breaking point – clearly he's desperate not to have this conversation – but Roger doesn't let go. Riggs may not want to hear this, but he definitely needs to. If it takes tough love to get him to listen, then so be it.  
"Don't shut me out, man. This is important."  
Finally the younger man stops resisting and lets out a weary breath. "What is, then, that's so fucking important?"  
Roger loosens his hard grip as he feels the fight leaving his partner. Riggs is standing there, head down and shoulders slumped in defeat, as he waits for him to speak. This isn't what Roger wanted to achieve, but it'll have to do.  
"Every time your dad looked at you, he saw her," he starts, choosing his words carefully, because he has one chance to get this out right. He can't mess it up. "He was in pain, too. I don't want to make excuses for him, and I'm not telling you to forgive him – fuck, I think he deserves to burn in hell for what he did – but maybe you can forgive yourself. It was his own pain that made him hurt you, not something you did or didn't do. You did _not_ deserve that."  
Roger pauses to check if his words are having any effect. The younger man stares back at him, eyes wide in his too-thin face. He looks about as shocked as Murtaugh has ever seen him and it almost makes him stop. But he steels himself and continues,  
"And getting beaten up as a kid doesn't make you weak, or a bad person, or any less worthy of love or happiness. There. That's all I wanted to say."  
Slightly out of breath, he stops and waits for the other man's reaction.

After a few moments of stunned silence Riggs looks to the side and gives a slight nod. Roger looked so earnest delivering his little speech, as if his life depended on convincing him. If only Riggs could let himself be convinced. Believing his partner's words would give him a chance to lead an easier, less self-destructive life, a chance to actually live and not just get by. He wants that, he really does, but faced with that house and everything it holds, it just seems impossible.  
There's only one thing to do: light up this place right now. He takes aim again, but gets once more stopped by his partner's call to "Wait!"  
Riggs looks at him in question, hoping Rog doesn't have anything to add to that speech, because he's had enough for today. He's tired, fucking _exhausted_ , of revelations, memories and all these goddamn emotions.  
"Let me get behind cover."  
"Right."  
So after waiting for Roger to hunker behind the truck, Riggs hefts the rocket launcher onto his shoulder, takes careful aim and fires. The concussive _boom_ rips the night apart in an awesome spectacle of sheer destructive power. Riggs digs his heels in as the shockwave threatens to blow him off his feet, then presses the red button. The second explosion no less loud, and much more fiery. The area is lit up for miles around as the old house goes up in flames.  
Roger ducks as debris starts raining down around them, but Riggs on the other hand pays them no heed, standing there in the open, whooping and laughing. He knows he sounds somewhat manic, but he can't help it. He has wanted to blow this place up for so long. It's an incredible relief to no longer have this old house looming in the back of his mind like a wound that won't heal.  
A big piece of burning wood, maybe the remains of a cabinet, crashes down right next to him and peppers him with sparks, but Riggs doesn't even flinch. He keeps watching the flames consume the ruins of his childhood, unable to tear his eyes away.  
Roger pulls him into cover. He has to yell to be heard over the roar of the flames and the cracking of timbers.  
"Alright, time to call the fire department. Don't wanna start a wildfire."

As Riggs drops his partner off by his car, two fire trucks speed by with flashing lights and blaring sirens. Roger follows their progress with a worried expression. "I hope they get the fire under control before it spreads."  
Riggs shrugs. The whole property could burn, for all he cares. And he's feeling way too damn good right now to worry about anything. His ears are still ringing from the explosion, his clothes are singed and his skin is blistered where he got hit by sparks, but he feels _good_. It's funny – blowing up the place hasn't actually solved any of his problems, but if sure feels like it has. He intends to ride that buzz for a while, but his partner puts an abrupt stop to that by once more trying to hand him the photo.  
Riggs shakes his head, this time in fond resignation and has to smile. "You never give up, do you?"  
The other man pulls himself up to his full height and says in a haughty tone, " _Never give up_. That's the Murtaugh motto. It's inscribed on our family crest." He turns serious and holds the picture out again. "Here, take it. Maybe you'll want it someday."  
Riggs reluctantly accepts the photo, slipping it into his jacket pocket. He's not so sure that day will ever arrive – right now he would consider it progress just being able to look at it – but it's nice to know his partner thinks so.  
He starts toward his truck, then pauses and turns back. This emotional stuff really isn't his strong suit, but he knows Roger likes to have things out in the open. Not that Riggs can ever adequately convey how pathetically grateful he is for the other man's friendship. He doesn't even know how to try, so he simply says, "Thank you, Rog. Couldn't have done this without ya."  
Roger looks expectedly pleased, his whole face lighting up with a smile that makes him look even more like the big cuddly teddy bear that he is.  
"Anytime, man," he replies solemnly. Then, in a lighter tone, "You Navy guys aren't the only ones who're Semper Fi."  
Amused, Riggs raises an eyebrow. "That's the Marines."  
"Right." Roger pauses. "I knew that."  
Riggs smirks."You're too cute." He throws his partner a salute before climbing back into his truck and driving off. In the rearview mirror he can see the Crown Vic's headlights as Roger pulls into the road behind him and they start the long ride home together.  
Riggs rolls down the window, takes a deep breath of the cool, smoke-tinged air, then lets it out again.

The night sky is pitch black except for the sickle moon and a smattering of stars – and for a spot in the distance where his childhood home is still burning brightly.


End file.
